by Olivia
I don’t like this bird cage.
It hums like a refrigerator full of whispers,
and the shadows inside chew
what wasn’t meant to exist.
The bird has a throat like a keyhole
and sings when no one is listening.
Its feathers smell of chalk and yesterday,
and sometimes I think
it knows things about me
That I have forced out.
The bars bend when I blink,
stretching into hands
that tap against my ribs
and ask me
if I would like to join.
I press my ear to the floor;
the cage is moving,
hopping on spider legs,
and I am not sure if it is the cage
or the air
that has gone mad.
I don’t like this bird cage.
It tastes like promises
you cannot swallow,
and the bird,
Oh! The bird,
it tilts its head
and grins sideways
with a mouth covered by a fan.